("The eye no longer single...")

Has not convinced me even yet. Can this be you?

Your life was frightening enough, but this

Poor pallid counterpart who fuddles in its role

Is inexcusable. Go haunt the houses of the girls

You once infected, or the men who bore

Your company far oftener than I; annoy the others

For a change. Is this, my house, the medieval hell

You took to at the grave's edge, years ago,

After a dozen other hells had burned themselves away,

Or are we purgatory here? If not,

You make it one. I give you until noon.

Ill

The eye no longer single: where the bowl,

Dead in the thickened darkness, swelled with light,

Transformed the images and moved the artist's hand,

Becomes a framework for our mania.

And haunts the stairway: friends depart,

Taking their last look from the roof,

Saying goodnight and carrying their view

Of grapes the model ate in Paris years ago.

Blue in the morning, green some afternoons;

The night, ambiguous, forgets the signature. ~

The dust in attics settled and his stove

Grew cold; about the model nothing much is known.

It ends the wall and complements the view

Of chimneys. And it hides a stain.

Iv

And when your beauty, washed away

In impure streams with my desire,

Is only topic for ill-mannered minds,

Gifted and glassy with exact recall,

Gossip and rancid footnotes, or remote despair,

Let ruined weather perish in the streets

And let the world's black lying flag come down.

Only in calendars that mark no Spring

Can there be weather in the mind

That moves to you again as you are now:

Tired after love and silent in this house,

Your back turned to me, quite alone,

Standing with one hand raised to smooth your hair,

At a small window, green with rain.